Shadowreach Academy loomed like a fortress born from nightmares, carved entirely from blackened obsidian and twisted, jagged stone.
Its towering spires pierced the darkened sky, their edges shimmering with a sinister glow as ancient runes flickered endlessly across their surfaces, pulsing with raw demonic energy.
The entire structure radiated an oppressive aura—an unmistakable presence that pressed down on the soul.
This was a place where the strongest demons from across the Netherworld gathered to sharpen their abilities, dominate their rivals, and ascend through merciless ranks.
Inside, the halls were vast and labyrinthine, stretching endlessly in branching corridors.
Glowing sigils were carved into the stone walls, while enchanted torches fueled by soulfire cast flickering shadows that danced like living creatures across the ancient stone.
The air itself felt heavy, thick with brimstone and lingering dark magic, making each step feel deliberate—almost ceremonial.
Tsuramo, his rune-etched bag slung casually over one shoulder, walked through the shadow-filled corridors with calm confidence.
His crimson eyes scanned the surroundings with quiet curiosity, absorbing everything without reaction.
Beside him, Masakiro dragged his own bag along the uneven stone floor, its straps tangled and worn, the sound of it scraping softly echoing behind him.
His pace was slower, his expression thoughtful rather than careless.
They were searching for their assigned dormitory.
After several turns, they finally arrived at a massive iron door carved with glowing demonic runes.
Above it, a plate of dark metal bore a simple designation:
D–042
A modest number—for demons of their lineage.
Tsuramo pushed the door open.
Inside was a typical demon student's room—dimly lit, functional, and far from luxurious.
The walls were built from rough dark stone, etched with faded sigils that hinted at old protective magic long since weakened.
Against one wall stood a sturdy iron bed draped with a tattered velvet curtain. A battered wooden desk sat nearby, cluttered with cracked enchanted scrolls and broken training weapons.
In the corner, a small orb of flickering shadowfire hovered silently, casting a faint orange glow across the room.
The air carried the familiar scent of ash and residual magic—nothing unusual for a demon's quarters.
Masakiro dropped his bag onto his neatly made bed with a tired sigh.
"I already miss home," he said quietly, glancing toward Tsuramo. "Why are we even here?"
Tsuramo was calmly placing his belongings away, his movements precise, his eyes half-lidded in thought.
"I don't know," he replied softly.
Then his gaze sharpened slightly as he turned. "Weren't you the one who convinced Father to enroll us in a school full of low-rankers?"
Masakiro exhaled and lay back on the bed, folding his hands behind his head.
"I thought it might be… educational," he said carefully. "Interesting, at least."
Tsuramo's crimson eyes narrowed. "If we follow Empress Thai's instructions," he whispered, lowering his voice instinctively, "we should avoid the D-Wraithling demons."
He paused.
"They may be weak individually, but they drain energy quickly. Groups like that are dangerous if underestimated. Thankfully, we're placed one class above them."
In their world, demons were ranked by power.D-Wraithlings were the lowest tier—immature, unstable, barely capable of basic magic or physical combat.
Yet even they could pose a threat, especially when acting together. Many possessed ghost-like abilities, making them unpredictable and exhausting opponents.
Masakiro nodded slowly. "Then we stay quiet," he said. "Observe first."
---
Later, the classroom buzzed with restless chatter.
The demon classroom itself was a strange and fascinating sight.
Students of countless demonic lineages filled the seats—some with sharp horns and long tails, others with wolf-like features that gave them a noble, predatory appearance.
A few bore goat-like horns and cloven hooves, resembling goblins but far more refined.
The Mistlings, lower mid-tier demons, sat together in small clusters.
Though physically smaller and less imposing, each carried a unique ability—stealth, illusion, speed—powers that would terrify entire human cities if unleashed.
Whispers rippled through the room like nervous spirits.
"Do you think they're as powerful as the Demon King?" someone whispered.
"I heard they're half-human," another murmured.
"Aren't they supposed to be SS-Rank?" a third added.
The speculation grew louder.
Suddenly—
BANG.
A sharp strike against the wooden desk silenced the room instantly.
All eyes snapped forward.
Standing at the front was Mrs. Kurohana.
She was a human woman, yet her presence dominated the space. Black wings were folded neatly at her back, and elegant horns curved from her head—symbols of her authority.
Her long dark hair framed a stern, composed face.
She wore a sharp brown blazer and a fitted black pencil skirt, holding a thick file tightly in one hand.
"Attention," she said, her voice crisp and commanding.
The room fell silent.
"It is my honor to announce the arrival of two distinguished students," she continued.
"The sons of Lord Malakar himself."
A ripple of shock passed through the class.
"Prepare yourselves," Kurohana said, her gaze unwavering. "You will show them proper respect."
The whispers returned—quieter, more anxious.
"I've never seen them before…"
"I think one has white hair…"
"They could wipe us out if they wanted…"
"Why are they in CM class?"
The noise grew—until—
"Shut."
The word fell like a blade.
Silence.
Kurohana's eyes swept across the room.
"Enough of these pointless whispers," she said coldly. "They are here to learn—just like you."
She paused.
"You will treat them as equals," she added. "If you value your place in this academy."
The room remained silent.
Shadowreach Academy had just changed forever.